


Carquaad Isn't Real

by intosuds



Category: Decay Chain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intosuds/pseuds/intosuds
Summary: It's the big show, and for once no one's home alone.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Carquaad Isn't Real

"–Dim those."

Tonight was important, moreso than any performance had been in the four years of his career. Show for show, spotlight to spotlight, he played the part for the sake of the act– tonight he played for the company, for the audience. Six months in preparation, honing and perfecting actions, the words, the lyrics, ensuring there was nothing that could go wrong when the time came– and the lights were too fucking bright.

On the day of a performance, things were stressful. The most miniscule of inconveniences were enough to set off a reaction so ill it could ruin the show for the rest of it's days, yet here this stage-hand was, blissfully unaware of his crucial mistake, as if this was his first fucking day on the job. It made Carmen sick to his stomach, and as soon as the light was dimmed he was sent off. He wouldn't be back.

Lemon and honey brought him comfort and release, to which his breaths flowed with less distast and he returned to his position. The final runthrough, two hours before the first performance, everything had to be perfect.

The lights cut off, the velvet lavender curtains squeaked to a close, and one beam illuminated him among nothing else. The center of attention, though the status was familiar, he still felt the wretch in his gut, the twinge of worry he despised so much. For once, however, it was almost washed away when his eyes met the vacant audience. No one was there, save for a select few who he had specifically requested be here, no one that didn't matter.

Carmen wouldn't smile, not for any reason or for anyone, and the only time his lips would ever be caught in the slightest semblance of a curl was when playing a part that called to it, but for once he felt as if he could. This was what he did, and he was good at it, but it felt nice to have support. He would never tell anyone in front of him he thought that, though. 

His honey-dashed hair let down to graze over his shoulders slightly, a black dress suit and pants to match decorating his body, and a blue line across his left arm to complete the style, he prepared. Two hours left. 

One more practice, one last chance to make it perfect. 

When he began to sing, it reflected the words in his mind, pedaling his voice and the uncharacteristic emotion put into it. The few people sitting in the maroon audience chairs were silent, his voice deafening any that would speak regardless with the un-tuned microphone wrapping behind his ear and to his mouth. His voice increased in pitch, wavering slightly to a tone he could scarcely meet, before lowering to a more familiar octave. Good. Merry the chance again. 

His voice came from his throat, the sounds not spoken through words, yet they reflected a story untold to most. It's baritone hum was personal, and the wavering lowering and heightening pitches reflected an introduction he wished to return to. 

Fourteen seconds before the curtains would open and his own story would be portrayed, though he would be aside only to watch, and he was relieved.


End file.
